abandonhopeshlottman-blog

[abandonhopeshlottman-blog]

now, go back to your lake, back to your boat. but this time know the place for what it is, and when you’re ready, take a look over the boat’s side. the water is clear and deep. broken sunlight cuts blue wedges down down into the clean, cold depths. don’t move. be very still. they say life is tenacious - life will always find a way, they say. be very quiet. keep looking into the water. keep looking, and keep watching.

                                      M O S S M U R M U R

                                    multimuse rp blog. written by gem.                               ft. muses from star wars, thg, loz, mcu + more

[abandonhopeshlottman-blog]

                                         WUG LIFE.

[abandonhopeshlottman-blog]

@vvindex [ x ]

                  most walk on eggshells around her, knowing that her brain matter isn’t exactly just her own anymore. or rather, maybe she is the only one that views it that way. foolish -–– she has seen the way the rebellions look at her. the greedy, tugging hands of the new order asphyxiated her for long enough that they pat themselves on the back for saving her, but watch her with trailing eyes in case she snaps. they’re all waiting for her to do so ; she knows. some days, she waits for it as well. so it’s understandable. but poe dameron, pilot and already hero, maybe understands. because besides those titles, he had his head dipped in the clutches of the first order too. if he can go on without a public breakdown, so can i. some days that feels like a bigger lie than others. 

                 but the rebellion needs all the help they can get. and maybe someone that was strangled by the enemy lines can be of use to them.

                  ❛     yeah, you have a job for me to do ? that                   you can trust me with ? they said i didn’t have                   clearance, last i checked -–– . . .      ❜

[abandonhopeshlottman-blog]

contrast

[abandonhopeshlottman-blog]

Keaton Henson - Earnestly Yours (x)

[abandonhopeshlottman-blog]

[abandonhopeshlottman-blog]

2 wicky - hooverphonic

prophet 6.. 0 0 9 1 this is the flight number of our galactic sun

s h 1.. 0 1 5 1 this is the serial number of our orbital gun

[abandonhopeshlottman-blog]

“Her world may be limited physically but by no means spiritually.”

- Andrew Wyeth, born today in 1917. 

[Andrew Wyeth. Christina’s World. 1948.]

[abandonhopeshlottman-blog]

[abandonhopeshlottman-blog]

americasfinestlegacy:

                 Once Cage and Jones has made themselves known the public he had almost had the foolish idea to follow as well. But he figures since he’s not yet as high profile around the neighborhood that he can get away with this a little longer. His only concern is currently helping him out of the littered alleyway. Maybe after some rest he can fully explain himself without her jumping to conclusions or psyching herself out. 

                 "Nothing a little shower can’t wash away… I’ll be good as new.”

                 It’s a ruse but one he’ll stick to. Ignoring every muscle screaming out in protest as he pushes himself to his feet and allows Hope to slip the hoodie on him, he reminds himself to get it dry cleaned for her later. Once they’re at the mouth of the alley Eli observes the seemingly quiet street before wrapping his arm around Hope’s shoulders so he can walk more steadily. Hopefully nobody will be the wiser and try to stop them on the way to Jones’.

                 “No hospitals– I think this is mostly a cure for ice packs and a few band aids. Seriously I can’t look that bad.”

                  hope thinks to the girl she used to be, back in omaha when she dreamed of the unknown of such a city. nothing of her life looks like any piece of picturesque city living that she dreamed for herself. she was foolish, this she knows, but superheroes ? supervillians ? really ? honestly. if she meets someone as plain as her anytime soon it’ll be a damn miracle.

                  ❛     alright, tough guy. i don’t know what                   kind of bath bombs or shower gels you                   have at your place but whatever damage                   you did to yourself is gonna need more                   than just a wash off. unless you’re about                   to tell me you have that damn super                   healing power too. you do, don’t you ?                   ah, still -––       ❜

                  she sighs as eli gets his arm around her shoulder and she brings her hand around his waist. she tells herself to not have a panic attack over someone touching her because now is not the fucking time, honestly, and if it’s someone she knows, if it’s -–– god, are they friends ? ––- someone that needs her help than she is okay. her skin does not need to prickle up, she doesn’t need to tense up, and she tells herself as they start to move, to relax and make their walk seem as casual and comfortable as possible. she banks on the majority of the population and how they’d rather not pay attention to unnecessary details of strangers. they may just be able to get the couple blocks to jess’ because of it.

                  ❛     you look like shit, eli. although, i guess                   you probably have a different level of ‘look                   like shit’ than i do. no hospital, deal. band                    aids, ice packs -–– but you’ll probably need                   stitches too still. super powers or no. don’t                   fight me on it.       ❜

[abandonhopeshlottman-blog]

Beware your face, your limbs, your walk; gods see these as invitations.

Becoming The Villainess by Jeannine Hall Gailey (via vassilias)

[abandonhopeshlottman-blog]

nihtwulf:

arya makes her smile as disarming as possible when she finally looks up from the old magazine at the girl that responded to her question, glad that someone had. she looks rough, frightened, obviously hurt from some kind of accident ( at least, arya hopes it was an accident ) and most of all in need of some kind of friendly distraction. arya knows too well what it feels like, being alone and hurt, placing your care in the hands of strangers. she’s been here enough that a couple of the nurses know her by name ( cat, always cat ) and stitch her up without making too much of a fuss. ignoring the ache in her bicep from the deep cut, she pushes herself further up into her seat, curling her legs up beneath her.  a brief gust of laughter escapes her at the back end of the other girl’s response. 

         “ it’s  okay, didn’t think you were insulting me at all. i’m sure that chimp would be loads of fun to talk to. ”   her fingers stick to the pages a bit, but she manages to fold the magazine in half at its crease, leaning over the gap between the rows of cushioned chairs to hold it out to the stranger. kanzi the chimp’s kind brown eyes gaze up above the faded print of the article.   

         “ he’s kind of cute. but i definitely agree with you. i mean, we’re pretty much animals ourselves, i don’t see what’s so insulting or, uhm–existentially horrifying about us accepting that, y’know? ”

                  hope relaxes -––––- tries to. the other seems harmless enough, and she tries to ignore the nagging voice that sounds like her dead mother that tells her those are the ones you have to really watch out for. there’s cameras here. and -– hope’s eyes shift and find the hospital security, bulking and scattered. survival teaches you to scan a room and search for watching eyes, useful muscles, and emergency exits. but she is just having a conversation with the girl sitting next to her about some chimp. no need to be so extreme.

                  she watches the movements -–– more catlike than human, hope muses –––- of the other out of the corner of her eye, painfully aware of how she doesn’t give eye contact. but she smiles lightly, and forces herself to look up at the other’s words, surprise opening her eyes wider when the girl hands over the magazine. a shaky hand of hope takes the offered paper with a nod of thanks and she looks at the picture, a light smile still painted upon her lips.

                  ❛     he is cute. and smart. humans tried                   really hard to break themselves out of                   the animalistic circle of life and got too                   much self importance in the process of                   their skyscrapers.       ❜

                  ugh. she sounds like the pretentious kids from her classes a year ago -–– or was it ten ? it felt like ten. she should lighten it up a bit. maybe something hard to do in an emergency room, but she tries the first thing she can besides musing harder upon the faults of mankind further.

                  ❛     what’d you do to end up here ?       ❜

[abandonhopeshlottman-blog]

americasfinestlegacy:

                 “Did I bring the hot sauce packets? Girl, the lack of confidence you have astounds me.”

                 With an over dramatic scoff, he brandishes the bag in his hand and inches past her to get into the apartment. Not that the door could have stopped him anyway. Jones really needs to get that lock taken care of– or at least install a deadbolt of she’s set on having Hope stay with her. Food has always been a deal breaker for him in any case, even a girl with trust issues can definitely tolerate his presence for an hour if she had something to munch on. He plops down on the couch as he begins to unload the paper bag, a Styrofoam box of cheesy nachos is set down along with four plastic dip cups of and two foil wrapped burritos are on the coffee table.

                 “Take your pick. The burrito on the left is chicken and the other one is carnitas.”

                  ❛     sue me for having trust issues when                   it comes to hot sauce packets.       ❜

                  she shrugs, her tone deadpanned and she’s sure she probably just made it awkward. hope knows that eli knows at least -–– some of it. not all of it ( well maybe, actually probably, he does, but -––– ), and that he knows that someone inside a person’s brain is sure to make anyone have a lack of confidence within the rest of the world. including something as simple ( and important ) as remembering hot sauce. but she tries to dismiss it as she closes the door behind them ( locks it, whatever the hell use that is in this place ), and stands for a moment, watching him making himself at home on the couch. he’s comfortable enough, or at least a good actor. she can pretend the same, right ? it’s better than being alone with her thoughts -–– she knows that and wants to curse jessica and luke both for tasking eli again as her damn babysitter because they know her that well. 

                  hope leaves an obvious space between the two of them on the couch, looking at the feast he brought and feeling how empty her stomach is. she takes a nacho as she considers her burrito options, the cheesiness of it almost about to have her make an audible sound of content for her tastebuds. she smiles at eli, feathered but her own, and raises an eyebrow.

                  ❛     how about we cut the burritos in half.                   that way we both get some chicken and                   some carnitas.       ❜

                  there. she can play nice and not have to have such a messy survival etched in every word. she can smile on her own accord and not just because of a violet command. she takes another nacho and bites loudly, hoping to quiet her mind. she is happy for the food to distract herself with. alright, and something not to admit allowed : his presence is nice, too.

[abandonhopeshlottman-blog]

what's a lil gay mom gotta do to get some angst around here c:

                  hope tiptoes silently upon the hardwood cold floors of trish’s place, hoping not to awaken the blond asleep on the couch. worry etches upon her face even in sleep -––– hope knows that jessica is the source. she feels it too, and wonders where that superhero is right now. if she is saving the world or destroying herself. ( somedays, they look the same. ) hope doesn’t spend much time with trish alone, and she wonders if the other woman noticed. she’s sure she has. something unsettles her about trish walker -–– maybe because the woman feels so good, so stable. there was a prickling of violet pulling her chin, hope knows, but she doesn’t regard the woman as a survivor of kilgrave like jessica or malcolm or the others. she knows the woman has her own demons ; maybe a part of her is foolishly jealous, wishing that her own demons could still just be her own. she feels too out of control with the strangers hiding in her mind nowadays.

                  she crouches, level now with with trish, eyes narrowing to look better in the dimming light at the woman napping. a hand reaches out and she brushes at her hair, noting how much more golden even the strands seem upon her head rather than hope’s own. she thinks of dyeing it -–– hot pink. no, aqua blue. or maybe just auburn. something that would make it so she would feel less aware of the fact that people on the streets might recognize her. but a part of her likes her blonde hair. a part of her likes that she, at least with her hair, feels some superficial bond with trish walker.

                  ❛     sometimes at night, i can’t picture                   my mom or dad anymore. it’s getting                   harder to ; they’re blurring. or i just                   see their blood from when i -–– but.                   your face comes through. instantly. i                   can picture me standing next to you                  and pretend that in another world                  maybe you are my mom, and jessica is                  too, and that i never did such awful                  things to a torn family and they were                  strangers who destroyed themselves                  without my hand in it. i’m too old for                  fairytales, right ? but still, it feels                  nice to think of it before the night-                 mares come for me.       ❜

                  a sigh comes through and hope pulls the blanket up higher on trish, sitting on the ground and leaning her head on the couch. she closes her eyes, and wonders what the other blonde would think if she woke up to hope like this, so close. hope’s hand stays on trish’s arm, and in the connection she can feel the other woman’s heartbeat. she stays her hand there like a lifeline.

                  ❛     i applied to a job the other day. at a                  cafe down the street. i don’t know if                  they’ll call me back or anything but -––                 i gave them your last name. maybe i                  won’t get hired on that alone. but the                  thought of writing shlottman -– walker.                  felt good and i thought you wouldn’t                   mind. maybe one day i’ll tell you that.       ❜

[abandonhopeshlottman-blog]

@thrownsoul liked.

                  ❛     hey, are you a librarian or do you                   just have that ‘librarian vibe’ because                   i -––       ❜

                  hope stops herself and curses, mentally telling herself that in a city where most people would rather not ever look into the eyes of a stranger let alone start up a random conversation, there would probably be hostility towards such a casual and harmless remark. she backtracks.

                  ❛     no, this isn’t something to say to                   someone you don’t know in a coffee                   shop, is it ? sorry, if you want your own                   space -–– i know it’s busy and we kind                   of ended up at the same table but i                   can move, ah, go walk twenty blocks                   away or -–– gah.       ❜

[abandonhopeshlottman-blog]

@profanemouth:

                   shit, it sounds familiar.  brittle, breakable,  broken,  hope’s voice is shivering  &  vulnerable like hunched shoulders  &  sharp knees hugged up to her chest.  it sounds like a night with trish gone to bed  &  her teeth clattering between fevered whispers of  birch street  &  higgins drive  like a prayer knowing that all the while, she  ISN’T  okay  (  &  the fear that she never  will  be  ).   

guilt is a powerful stimulant.  adrenaline flushes her veins, shocks her jaw screwed closed like a vice.  her blinking is better suited to a camera shutter, intermittently skipping over each moment in time as though she can pick out the good ones  &  abandon the rest.  

❛  i killed him.  ❜  it comes easier than confession but still lodged in her throat as if climbing through brambling wire to get free.  

she nods.  her chin jerks, wobbles, welling glaze peering up from her tear ducts. her out-turned hands are violent, the snappers of bone, the weapons that severed cartilage  &  nerve until that ugly bruise of a tongue could wound them no more.  

                                                                          she killed him.  

                 but he’s still  WINNING, his cheery, malevolent chortle still echoing in the backdrop because his words linger.  his commands planted seeds in the crease of hope’s taste buds, threw roots to lasso their fear.  &  now the poisonous blooms show out like violets reaching for the sun.  no.  she’ll grind her heel down into the garden beds before they can flourish. 

shoulder blades slide back, over jessica’s spine.  she hardens that shell, that armor she wears in shades of rage.  

❛   it  is  okay.  you’re okay.    ❜   one of us  HAS  to be.  perished parents, an orphaned brother…  reva  …  there is a light, pale  &  anemic, at the end of the tunnel.  there has to be for  hope.  the heels of her palms settle on the fronts of hope’s chest, just outside the heave of her sternum, steadying in a way she could never ground herself.  she swallows, the lump too thick  &  heavy to push down all the way.  ❛  he’s  DEAD.   ❜  gritty.  her molars shift, tectonic, harsh.  ❛   he’s not coming back.   ❜  

                                               ❛  you didn’t mean it.  tell me you understand that.   ❜ 

                  once, at eleven years old, she tried to change her desk lamp’s shattered lightbulb without switching it off. metal zipped the electricity into hope’s unruly and reaching fingertips, and for the rest of the day it seemed to shake and be constricted in some almost-shock. it’s what takes over her body now. she wonders if she could cut her tongue out and bleed the purple gone, wonders what good that’ll do. she hates it, hates him, knows that even being mute he’d still fucking exist up there, where he lived and continues to live even after being killed. 

                  a breath she didn’t know she held stutters past chapped lips when jessica repeats the facts : she killed him. the man is dead. she thinks of his brains smashed upon the pavement ; hope knows his end wasn’t that gory, but she figures that its safer to consider him in such a context instead of considering that kind of mess as her next attempt at getting him out of her mind. she thinks about how at the end, how his blood must’ve been the same red that it is for everyone else. that despite his affinity for purple, despite his superhuman power and wicked ways, he bleeds out just like anyone else. just like hope did. just like hope lived through and he didn’t, goddamit, he didn’t.

                  she wishes she had his blood bottled up ( a reminder to wear as a  necklace or a keepsake to have on her nightstand ), or maybe something more grisly like a finger, just to remember how fucking dead he is. maybe she is more fucked up from all of it than she ever allowed herself to voice aloud. survival some days looks like self destruction, she figures. jessica jones would know that better than her. she keeps the thoughts inside. no use for such daydreams. dead is dead.

                  there is a sardonic chuckle that leaks out of her when jessica tries to affirm that hope is okay. she still doesn’t forgive herself ( a cheese grater against the tongue to rid the feeling, a blade against her throat for being able to vocalize such -––– ), but the fact that the other tries to reach so far as to tell hope shlottman that she is okay is too much reaching. she must know. she must realize how much she is trying to overprotect. perhaps a piece of hope appreciates it, and is even warmed by the gesture. but right now all she can think of is how dirty it feels inside her mouth, how much she brims with a static for just saying the others’ name.

                  ❛     i wish i saw him die. i know it’s                   not possible, you probably even then                   wouldn’tve -–––       ❜

                  it’s a miracle that jessica agreed with hope finally to kill him instead of trying to convince the world of getting him on trial. the scar on her throat burns at the thought, and is glad that paperwork can cast enough doubt and legality for a girl in the ICU due to a knife she drew on her own throat. ( couldn’t even slit her own throat right. she is glad the media didn’t get its hands on that piece of information, that there is a lawsuit over the heads of anyone but trish walker broadcasting any more information concerning hope shlottman. it’s a miracle that the dead weight of hope is allowed to linger within jessica jones’ apartment. )

                  ❛     i see it in my dreams sometimes and                   it’s the only time i don’t have a nightmare.                   no, i’m not okay, jessi -–– jess. maybe once                   i was. i used to be boring and okay and                   normal, but i’m pretty fucked up now.       ❜

                  shoulders hunch at jessica’s command. being told to feel some way -–– it’s a survivor’s tactic, a mantra they both have to tell themselves and hope knows that, knows, but something inside of her is eleven years old and grasping on the broken lightbulb edge again. she breathes through her nose and smells rust. she wonders what would knock someone out faster : downing the bottle of whiskey like jessica does or smashing it and using the jagged edge against their throat like hope tried.

                  ❛     i didn’t mean it. i know that. but it                   doesn’t erase that it happened. that i                   said your name like that and that it’s -––                   there. in me.       ❜